


On Razor's Edge

by disalae



Series: Rinn Hawke [1]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, But kinda fluffy too, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Post All That Remains, Prompt Fill, Rating for Language, sad drunks, sad haircuts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-07
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-06-23 19:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19708039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/disalae/pseuds/disalae
Summary: The room is a right mess. The bed sheets have been torn from the bed proper, and lay in a heap on the floor like a rat’s nest. Next to that lies a bottle, not empty, but well loved upon — that accounts for the smell then, he figures. The faint odor of sick does not elude him either, as he is miserably well versed in the scent of it from the clinic. Pity fills within him at the realization.No — not pity. Anger, perhaps, at what has caused this. Despair, more likely, at what it has done to her.Regret, most certainly, that he did not come back sooner than he has.





	On Razor's Edge

**Author's Note:**

> For the weekly reddit prompt fill thread - prompt was _darkness, the smell of stale whisky and rot_.

The smell hits him before he’s even entered the room.

“Love,” he announces, pushing the cracked door open further still. The room is dark save for the light from the fireplace, and with the place smelling as if soaked in whiskey, he prays Rinn is not standing close to it.

He asks, as if he really has to, “Are you in here?”

The response is so quiet he barely hears it over the crackling of the fire. “Yes.”

“May I come in?” 

There is no response at first. He isn’t certain there will be one. _I’d rather deal with this on my own_ , she’d said, when he’d come before. And, as much as it’d gutted him to hear — he’d let her. But how long was he supposed to stay away? He has to know if she’s all right. 

Steeling himself for the brunt of her ire, he walks in.

He wishes he hadn’t left the first time.

The room is a right mess. The bed sheets have been torn from the bed proper, and lay in a heap on the floor like a rat’s nest. Next to that lies a bottle, not empty, but well loved upon — that accounts for the smell then, he figures. The faint odor of sick does not elude him either, as he is miserably well versed in the scent of it from the clinic. Pity fills within him at the realization.

No — not pity. Anger, perhaps, at what has caused this. Despair, more likely, at what it has done to her. 

Regret, most certainly, that he did not come back sooner than he has. 

_She asked you for space_ , he reasons, but the back of his mind flares in righteous anger. He should know better. He should be better.

The fire burns hot in front of her, red as her hair and bright against her skin. Against so much of her skin — for she wears nothing, save her smalls, her scars, and a second bottle of whiskey she holds in one hand. The other hand scratches at the side of her leg; picks where fabric normally would be for her to twist in her nervousness, in her self consciousness. 

It also holds in its grip the majority of her hair, like a great bloody serpent in her hand.

Maker, he wants to raise Quentin from the dead and kill him again for what he’s done to her.

“Love…” he begins again, but it’s softer this time. Anguished, someone more poetic may call it. But there’s truth in that. He can’t bear to see her like this. Asks, though at this point it’s more formality than anything, “Please. May I come in?

Rinn drinks from the bottle before she answers, and when she does, it is a sigh. “Yes, Anders. Of course.”

 _Of course_ , she says, and he can’t help but feel a weight lifted off him. It is still difficult for him to believe she wants him around; at times like these, he wonders if his presence is any comfort at all. He certainly had not thought it was when she told him to stay away.

But it must be now, right? 

As he walks to stand next to her, she speaks, though it’s barely more than a whisper: “I couldn’t get it out.”

“Couldn’t get what out?” he asks, studying her. Despite the fire, she shivers — and so he takes off the blue housecoat he wears and drapes her over her shoulders, leaving him in only his trousers. 

She doesn’t seem to even notice. 

She does look at him, though. Explains, as if it should be obvious. “The smell.”

It takes him a moment too long to understand, and so he asks, “The smell?” before he gets it. He winces, and looks away for a moment. “I... I’m sorry.”

“It's all right,” she answers, turning back to look at the fire. Her voice is unnervingly even, and calm - as if tranquil, though she is no mage. Shock and stupor of alcohol, he knows, but the thought of such a thing -- impossible as it is — turns his stomach. “I didn’t like those clothes much anyway.”

Realization hits him, and he turns to the fireplace. “You burnt your clothes?”

She shakes her head. “No. Yes,” she amends; confesses. Looks back at him. “They smelled, Anders. I— I tried to wash them, all right? I tried, but it didn’t work. They still smelled like…”

He tries to stop her. She doesn’t need to say it. “You don’t have to explain, love.”

But it doesn’t stop her. “...Like _her_ , you know? But not like her,” she quickly clarifies. “Not like before.” 

“I know.”

“Like what she became. Like that place. Like the dirt, and the blood, and the,” and she chokes, now, on her words, on the sob that was hanging in her throat and has clawed its way out, “and the _rot_.”

Idleness doesn’t suit him anymore. He turns towards her and grabs her shoulders, facing her towards him as well. “Love,” he repeats, will repeat until she’s tired of hearing him say it, “you don’t have to explain anything to me. Grief doesn’t have to make sense. It’s all right.”

For the first time, she seems to have heard something he’s said. Nods mutely at his words and, after a moment spent looking at him, seems to almost snap out of whatever tranquil state she was in. He would be grateful for such a thing, if she did not also all of a sudden seem embarrassed, shame lighting up her cheeks as red as her hair. 

“I’m sorry, Anders,” she says, voice thick with tears, words stumbling into each other with drink. She breaks away and wanders towards the bed, facing away from him, though she does not sit down. “Maker, I’m a mess. You-- you shouldn’t be here.”

What? He follows her, though does not move to touch her. He barely hides the trepidation in his voice when he asks, “Do you want me to leave?”

After a moment, she shakes her head, sure as anything. “No. I don’t. But,” and then he turns a bit, to face him, though she still can’t meet his gaze, “you don’t have to stay.”

Anders has to laugh at that, a little. At the ridiculousness of it. He keeps the smile on his face when he grabs her chin so she looks at him again, if only because he hopes she will mirror it. “Darling, I’m not going anywhere.” A beat. “Unless of course you call Aveline in to drag me away, then I fear I wouldn’t have any choice in the matter.”

Maker bless, it works. She laughs, a bark of a thing, though the exhale of emotion brings about another wracking sob. In response he brings her close, her skin against his. She’s warm; he’s not sure if it’s from the fire, or the liquor. Doesn’t matter.

One hand rubs up and down her back, knuckles grazing, soothing, while the other goes to grab the bottle from her hand. She lets him. “Enough of this, though, all right?” he says, reaching behind her to place it on the nightstand. He laments the clinical tone, but it needs to be said. “That’s not going to make you feel any better.”

“I know,” she responds quietly, ashamed still. “But at this point I’m afraid of what I’ll feel like when I stop.”

He laughs, little more than a huff of air through his nose. “Lucky for you, you’ve got a healer on call,” he reassures, and as if collateral to back up his words, lets a pulse of energy emanate from his hand, cooling her fevered skin.

Rinn nods mutely, leaning into his touch and absorbing the blessed chill, her free hand going to press his hand against her cheek. The groan she gives at the relief of it would be lovely any other time. “Praise the Maker for giving you such blessings. I owe you…” she pauses, briefly, “...well, a lot more than one, if we’re counting my tab.”

He chuckles, running his thumb across her cheek idly. “You can make it up to me later, sweetheart.”

“I will,” she promises, though it sounds a bit half-hearted. “Just don’t leave, all right?”

“I won’t.”

“Everyone keeps leaving me,” she murmurs, seemingly lost in her thoughts more than actually speaking with him, and he knows she’s not just talking about now anymore. “I’ve lost them all. I couldn’t—” she cuts herself off. “Just, stay with me, Anders. Please?”

Guilt grips at his heart. Deep down, he knows he can’t he promise her anything of the sort — can’t promise forever like she needs. Come what may, the taint will get him sooner or later; will leave him as rotten as the smell she couldn’t rinse away, and, well, he will do just that. He will leave her.

Of course, he figures he was never going to make it that long anyway, as if that is any better comfort.

What is there to say?

As he lingers in his response, he feels her fingertips against his hand, pressing him against her, as if claiming her as his, he as hers.

Pointless, that. He is already branded and marked and forever hers. Foolish for him to think otherwise.

And so, “Never,” is what he answers. Means it, as much as he can.

At his answer, an errant tear streaks down her cheek; she goes to wipe her face, but instead of using her free hand, she absentmindedly uses the one full of her hair. 

“Fuck,” she whispers when it surprises her, dropping the tangle of curls to the ground, before her face crumples again. “Maker, fuck.”

“Shh,” he placates, running his thumb across her cheek once more, the steady chill changing to something more soothing. 

“It was in my _hair_ ,” she laments, practically keens, and he doesn’t have to ask what. Knows very well how certain scents can linger, and where. “I thought it was my clothes, still, you know? When I kept smelling it. But it was my hair. I’m sorry.”

He’s surprised at the apology. “What for?”

“I know you liked my hair long,” she explains, reaching up to touch the ends, now barely grazing below her chin. Her gaze goes distant. “So did mother.”

Anders leans forward and kisses her cheek as his answer, which earns another sob from her. He’d feel bad about it, but the action doesn’t seem to be unwelcome; she leans into it, into him, melting into his embrace as she buries her face in the crook of his neck.

After a moment, he does answer, though. Trails his fingers through the ends, and declares, “I like it this way, too. It suits you.”

Her laugh is a little huff. She shakes her head and mumbles against his skin, breath warm against it, “Thanks.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for much for reading! <3


End file.
